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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26049571">Rhapsody</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822'>Magnolia822</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Because Crowley deserves it, Can demons be sainted, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley's Love Language is Acts of Service (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Drunk Sex, Edging, Emotional Baggage, Hand Jobs, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Heavy Petting, Massage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Possessive Sex, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Frustration, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Use Your Words, Vaginal Fingering, Virginity Kink, Wet &amp; Messy, but only because they don't talk about it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:54:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,096</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26049571</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale has chronic leg pain and Crowley volunteers to help him out with a friendly massage, which becomes decidedly more than friendly. </p><p>Created for <a href="https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/4446.html?thread=3236190">this</a> kink meme prompt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>586</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Kink Meme</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley enters the bookshop at half past six, arms filled with packages for their night in: Aziraphale’s favourite cheeses, of course, and the little green olives with lemon, truffles from the new shop on the corner and a loaf of crusty sourdough bread. He jostles the door shut with an elbow and the bell dings, announcing his presence, and he saunters as well as he can past the stacks and toward the back room, where he can hear the distinctive strains of Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. An interesting choice. Romantic, even. Crowley pushes the thought aside, but only just. Since the Notpocalypse, he’s been mostly sure things are changing between them, but he absolutely refuses to give Aziraphale any reason to complain he’s moving too fast. Crowley can go slow. He is a snake, after all. </p><p>Aziraphale is sitting on the side of the small sofa that Crowley has come to think of as his, the blue paisley throw marking the border beyond which a red blanket, purchased sometime in the late seventies, designates Crowley’s own territory. It’s part of their arrangement; separate, but close - however, recently, the blankets have begun to rumple together with noticeable frequency. Crowley isn’t sure whether Aziraphale is simply being less fastidious about how they are arranged, or if they are trying to give an angel and a demon a subtle hint. </p><p>The angel in question gives Crowley a strained smile and fidgets. “Hello, my dear,” he says, his voice oddly quiet. “You’re back early.” </p><p>Crowley sets down the bags on the little coffee table and turns back to him, startled by the less than effusive greeting. “Yeah, is that a problem? I can go if you’re busy.” </p><p>“No, no, of course not.” Aziraphale smiles again, but without the usual brightness. He rubs at his knee and sits up a little straighter. “Please, show me what you’ve brought.” </p><p>Crowley does, pulling each item out of its respective bag and container for Aziraphale’s inspection. This is another of their little rituals, and one that Crowley relishes. He loves the angel’s excited wiggles of approval, the little sounds of delight as Crowley unveils the curated array of treats. His offerings, as it were. Tonight, however, the wiggles and exclamations are noticeably absent. Aziraphale’s expression is wooden, almost pained - and then Crowley notices him rubbing his leg again, right above the knee. It’s an absent-minded motion, the type he recognizes from centuries of living among humans with chronic pain. </p><p>He stops what he’s doing and frowns, a curl of dread going through him. “Is your leg hurting again?” </p><p>“Oh, a bit. Nothing I can’t manage.” </p><p>“Angel, this is the third time this week. Maybe it’s time you see someone.” </p><p>“A doctor? Crowley, don’t be absurd. What could a human doctor do to help me? And how would I explain the lack of a regular heartbeat during a physical examination? It’s simply preposterous. Not to mention all of the other anomalies they might discover.” He stops rubbing and clasps his hands together tightly, as though trying to hold himself back. </p><p>Crowley sits down next to him - on the red blanket, of course - but close enough to smell Aziraphale’s cologne mingling with the subtle scent of dusty leather that always clings to him. He can feel Aziraphale’s tantalizing body heat, and the snake inside of him wants nothing more than to twine around the comfort of that warmth. But he also knows he doesn’t deserve it, perhaps most of all now. There is something that has been weighing on his mind ever since the first time Aziraphale mentioned the pain in his leg a month or so ago, but until now has kept to himself. “Do you think it’s because of me? Because I used your corporation?” </p><p>Aziraphale lets out a breath of surprise. “Whatever do you mean?” </p><p>“I mean, what if I left something behind. Something evil? I could have contaminated you.” Crowley almost cringes at the naked honesty and concern in his voice, which is made even worse by the swelling music filling the room as the rhapsody picks up steam. It’s the kind of emotional response unbefitting a demon that can get you a mountain of paperwork in Hell, or worse. Of course, now that Crowley doesn’t answer to his old bosses, he’s the only one one judging. He still manages to be embarrassed. </p><p>“My dear boy, no.” </p><p>Crowley chances a glance over at Aziraphale. The angel is looking at him with soft eyes; it’s the kind of expression that messes Crowley up inside and makes him act like a besotted idiot. </p><p>“You can’t know that, angel.” </p><p>“I can. I . . . confess this is something I’ve been dealing with for a very long time. I haven’t wanted to tell you because I knew you’d get upset.” </p><p>“I’m not upset.” </p><p>Aziraphale purses his lips. He is, after all, a bit of a bastard.</p><p>Crowley shrugs, admitting defeat. “So how long has it been?” </p><p>“Oh, since the crucifixion, give or take. It comes and goes, usually during stressful times. Like I said, it’s nothing I can’t manage. I’ve got an appointment with my masseuse tomorrow, which should help quite a bit.” </p><p>“You mean, someone who . . . massages you.” Crowley swallows, the image rising to his mind of Aziraphale laying naked under a white sheet while a man with bulging muscles oils up his legs, going higher and higher and—</p><p>“That is generally what a masseuse does, yes.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I suppose it’s a bit of an indulgence, but it’s lovely, and the pain usually goes away for several days after a vigorous rub. Unfortunately it’s not something I can do myself. I can’t quite get the right angle.” </p><p>Crowley feels his ears turning red. He wishes he had a glass of wine or some olives to stuff in his mouth to distract him from thinking about - Satan - something he absolutely should not be thinking about with Aziraphale sitting right next to him, not if he wants to maintain any semblance of dignity. His body is already starting to react, and his tight trousers don’t allow that sort of thing to go unnoticed. </p><p>“Now,” Aziraphale says, nonplussed. “Let’s open a bottle and sample some of these delicious things you’ve brought. We shan’t let it spoil our evening.” He reaches forward to select one of the truffles and lets out a little hiss of pain and surprise. With dawning horror, Crowley notices that tears have sprung up in the corners of the angels’s eyes. </p><p>“Bloody hell, Aziraphale. We’re not just going to ignore it. You’re suffering and I can help. I can massage your leg for you, if you want.” </p><p>He’s expecting a no. He’s at the very least expecting hesitation, and so it nearly surprises him to inaction when Aziraphale nods and, leaning back against the sofa with his treat against his lips, says, “If you would, my dear, I’d be so obliged.” </p><p>The music has taken another turn, and Crowley is at a loss for what to do. He’s never actually touched Aziraphale in anything more than a passing way for all of the millenia they’ve known each other, and now he’s being gifted with the opportunity he’s dreamed of and craved for almost as long. But this isn’t for his own pleasure - it’s to help Aziraphale and relieve his pain. He better remember that and not get any ridiculous notions.</p><p>“All right. Sure. Happy to. Big massage fan, me.” With some effort, he gets his body to move until he’s kneeling between Aziraphale’s spread thighs. The fabric pulls taut across the solid girth of both of them, and Crowley remembers the brief time he spent inside of Aziraphale’s corporation. He had been so stressed he hadn’t time to really appreciate it, but he remembers running his hands up and down those thighs, and how there is a lightly ticklish place just behind the knee. He hadn’t experienced any of Aziraphale’s leg pain, but at least he has some basic knowledge of what might feel good. </p><p>“Where does it hurt?”  </p><p>Aziraphale smooths a hand over a substantial portion of his leg from knee to his groin. Crowley swallows deeply and lets his own hands follow the same path, up and down, rubbing small circles into the meat of the muscle. Aziraphale breaths out a relieved sigh and relaxes minutely, his body softening into the sofa as he munches his truffle. Crowley is suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude he's here to do this for his angel, to relieve some of his discomfort, if only momentarily. </p><p>“How’s this?” </p><p>“Very good. You can dig in, my dear. You won’t hurt me.” </p><p>“Okay. Tell me if it gets to be too much.” He resumes, this time a little more forcefully, and is soon lost in the motion of his hands and the warm flesh underneath, the rising cadence of the music. Aziraphale’s head falls back against the sofa. His eyes are closed, lips gently parted. Crowley is acutely aware of how close he is to the apex between Aziraphale’s thighs. He doesn’t know if Aziraphale is sporting an effort, or if he is at all aroused from the touch. There is no evidence of either, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He has seen the angel naked in Rome at the baths and knows that he likes to keep things interesting. He wonders if there is a vulva there, and if so, if he is getting as wet as Crowley is hard. Of course, he is immediately guilty over the thought, but he can’t quite push it out of his mind, especially as the angel spreads his thighs further and inches closer, as though inviting Crowley’s to explore him - ngk! </p><p>Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, but Crowley watches him intently. He considers himself a bit of a connoisseur in that regard, but even he is surprised by what happens next. A faint blush spreads over the angel’s cheeks, and his breathing gets heavier, whether from relaxation or something else, it’s hard to say at first. Crowley keeps at it, letting his fingers drift to the top of Aziraphale’s thigh and knead at the sensitive plumpness there, then dig deeper to get at the muscle beneath. The angel trembles slightly, and he shifts even closer. His hips are working minutely, hitching as Crowley works, and Crowley nearly expires from lust as he smells a musky, sweet aroma that can only mean one thing. For Someone's sake, the fabric between Aziraphale’s legs is darkening - dampening. His trousers are soaked through, a little wet patch right at the center. </p><p>Neither of them say a word. Crowley doesn’t dare touch his sex, but he can’t quite keep away from it either. His fingers skate closer with every pass, and Crowley’s blood roars in his ears, filling his cock so forcefully, he worries he might come and wouldn’t <i>that</i> be an awkward moment. Aziraphale lets out a shaky moan. </p><p>“Too much?” Crowley moves to withdraw, face flushing with anxiety and his own arousal, but Aziraphale clasps his hand and brings it back, pressing down in encouragement. The layers of fabric between them are suddenly infuriating. Crowley thinks madly of ripping the trousers from Aziraphale’s body and burying his face between his thighs, but he doesn’t dare. He presses his fingertips against the soft flesh underneath, rubbing and rubbing until the angel cries out softly, and Crowley can feel the little nub of his aroused clit. He squeezes it gently between his thumb and forefinger and Aziraphale gasps, so he does it again, and again. He is delighted to discover Aziraphale’s mons fits Crowley’s cupped palm perfectly.</p><p>The music swells into the final crescendo. Crowley uses the whole length of his hand, cradling Aziraphale between his legs and letting him rub and grind against it. He taps his fingers against Aziraphale’s perineum, sliding his hand back and forth and fiddling with his clit. There is a slight give where the wetness is most obvious, and Crowley fingers over that little hole, pressing in. A faint sheen of sweat breaks out on Aziraphale’s forehead, and Crowley wants to taste it, to kiss him and take him to bed and spend days pleasuring his angel with his hands and his tongue and his cock. His hand is slick and warm, and he feels a rather demonic growl rise up in his throat as Aziraphale’s thighs tighten, his whole body arching as his climax finally breaks over him. Crowley feels his cunt pulse against his fingers, and he keeps going, rubbing gently until Aziraphale whimpers, overstimulated. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. </p><p>Crowley sits back on his haunches, blood pounding in his cock, waiting for Aziraphale to respond. He can’t quite process what has just happened. The music drifts to a quiet close, and Aziraphale’s breathing eases. Finally, he clears his throat and opens his eyes. </p><p>“I’m feeling much better, my dear. Thank you. A bit peckish, actually.” His cheeks are pink, and he looks slightly sheepish. “Would you care for a drink?” </p><p>“Ah, yeah. Okay.” Crowley says, still on his knees, his erection an obvious bulge in his trousers. Aziraphale doesn't seem inclined to address what has just happened. He hums quietly as he opens a bottle of red that had appeared with the snap of his fingers. Crowley somewhat awkwardly manages to arrange himself back onto the sofa. It’s becoming increasingly clear that nothing further of a sexual nature will occur, and Crowley is trying to figure out how to excuse himself for a wank and maybe a cry as Aziraphale passes him a full glass and smiles. </p><p>“You’re quite an accomplished masseur, my dear. Such strong hands and fingers. Have you done it much before?” </p><p>Crowley nearly chokes on his first sip of wine, shocked by the thought that perhaps Aziraphale <i>expects</i> massages to end in such a manner. Perhaps he frequents one of the many underground establishments in London and thinks nothing at all of his masseuse touching him so intimately. The thought makes him insanely jealous and turns him on in equal measure. He watches as Aziraphale pops an olive into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “Ah. Can’t say that I have. Not that - aghk - sort.” </p><p>“Maybe you wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime?” Aziraphale gives him a hopeful look, but there is something Crowley recognizes there, too, beneath the innocent expression. He takes another sip of wine to fortify himself. </p><p>“Yeah. I mean, I’m up for it whenever you are, angel. All you have to do is ask. It’s not so difficult when you ah - get the hang of it.” </p><p>Aziraphale seems to have another thought. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “I . . . do find it difficult to ask for things, my dear. For help. You understand?” </p><p>Crowley watches as the angel worries his hands together. It is true - in all of the years they have been hereditary enemies and then friends, Aziraphale has rarely asked Crowley for anything. No, he has implied, and intimated, and cajoled, and depended on Crowley to know what it is he wants - and often, Crowley does. He finds himself slightly out of his depth, here, with this, but maybe it is simply more of the same. Perhaps Aziraphale wants a relationship, or at least sexual release, with him, but can’t bring himself to make the request. Crowley has no doubt that the pain in Aziraphale's leg is real, but it is also a perfect excuse for something else. </p><p>“Yeah. I know, angel.” </p><p>“You’re so very patient with me. I know I can be difficult.” Aziraphale sniffs slightly, and he shifts minutely closer. Crowley, who by now has given up on his erection ever going away, puts his arm on the top of the sofa in what he hopes is a welcoming manner. It is so close to touching Aziraphale that any casual observer might think they were embracing. </p><p>“You’re not so bad,” he says.</p><p>“And my leg really does feel so much better.” Aziraphale scoots closer still, so that they are thigh to thigh. </p><p>Crowley snorts. “I’m sure it does, angel. I’m sure it does.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things return to normal over the next week. Crowley visits the bookshop, takes the angel for lunch, feeds the ducks in the park - in short, he does his best to engage in all of the usual activities, all the while trying not to obsess over the memory of an angel coming undone under his hands. </p>
<p>Aziraphale is as warm and welcoming as he has been since the not-end-of-the world, but not much more so, and Crowley considers writing off the whole business as a moment of madness born out of pain and need and leave it at that, but he is also cursed with a vivid imagination and a persistent streak of optimism. He keeps thinking about how things could end up going his way. He resolves to be patient. </p>
<p>Aziraphale doesn’t seem troubled by his leg in the days after the ‘incident,’ but on Sunday, after a walk in St. James’s Park, Crowley notices a slight limp in the angel’s stride as they close in on the bookshop. He bites his tongue against the impulse to reach out and steady him - but seconds later, a warm hand hooks onto his arm. </p>
<p>“So sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says in a breathless voice. “My leg does seem to be giving me a bit of bother just now.” </p>
<p>Crowley moves closer so that he can take more of Aziraphale’s weight. “Not a problem, angel. We’re almost home.” The word slips out before Crowley can stuff it back in, but Azirapahle doesn’t seem to notice, much to Crowley’s relief. He isn’t sure when the bookshop and the little flat above started feeling more like home than his own. Maybe it was sometime after the great thaw in the forties, when he’d become a more frequent visitor. He would never admit it out loud, but the dusty, cluttered mess of Aziraphale’s space is more comfortable than the impeccably decorated penthouse. The one thing he misses when he’s away are his plants. </p>
<p>“I’m afraid that long walk was a bit too ambitious for me.” There’s a thread of pain and vulnerability in Aziraphale’s voice that cuts right to Crowley’s core. He maneuvers slightly so that his arm is around Aziraphale’s waist to give him more support, and the angel seems to sag against him with relief. Luckily, they only have a few more metres to go. </p>
<p>“Here we are, angel. Let’s get you inside.” </p>
<p>“Would you mind taking me upstairs, my dear? I’d very much appreciate a lie down, and a cuppa, if it’s not too much trouble.” </p>
<p>The flat upstairs is accessible by a narrow staircase that doesn’t allow for two man-shaped beings to traverse it side-by-side, and so Crowley winds up assisting Aziraphale from behind, a firm hand low on Aziraphale’s back as he climbs. He does his best not to think about the tempting roundness just beneath, but doesn’t do a very good job of it. </p>
<p>Upstairs, Crowley leaves Aziraphale to get comfortable while he potters around in the small kitchen, putting the kettle to boil and finding a packet of biscuits. Tea isn’t really Crowley’s thing, but he knows how the angel takes it - milk, two sugars - and he finds a little tray to carry the lot back to the seldom-used bedroom, where he finds his angel laying in bed wearing a fuzzy tartan robe and apparently, nothing else. </p>
<p>Crowley almost drops his tray. He manages to make it look like he’s simply tripped, or at least he thinks he manages, but he turns away to set the tray down on the table next to the bed. </p>
<p>“How’s the leg?” he asks, aiming for nonchalance. Aziraphale takes the cup of tea and sips, making a pleased sound that goes right to Crowley’s head. </p>
<p>“Not much better, I’m afraid. Nothing a little R&amp;R won’t help, I’m sure.” He takes one more sip and then sets the cup down, dabbing at his lips with a cloth napkin. </p>
<p>Crowley clasps his hands behind his back to stop himself from doing something stupid. “Okay. Well. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll just . . . I’ll be . . .” He trails off, rooted to the spot and at a complete loss for what to do next. Aziraphale’s legs are bare, and the light dusting of golden fuzz on them is utterly captivating.   </p>
<p>“Oh, do you have to leave?” </p>
<p>“Not at the mo,” Crowley says, too quickly.</p>
<p>Aziraphale hesitates, looking suddenly nervous. “I was . . . that is . . . would you mind, my dear, working your magic on me again? I think it would do my leg a world of good.” </p>
<p>“Sure. I can do that.” Crowley is grateful for his glasses. He’s sure his eyes are about to pop out of his skull as he watches the angel shift on the bed, so that the robe falls open slightly, exposing a peek of his chest.</p>
<p>“Wonderful.” Aziraphale claps his hands together. “I’ve got some almond oil right here in the side drawer. I find lubrication makes the massage even better.” </p>
<p>Crowley clears his suddenly very dry throat. “Yeah. Okay.” He isn’t sure the angel knows what he’s saying when he makes comments like that, but he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “How do you want to do this?” </p>
<p>“Perhaps we should start on my stomach. The pain has gotten worse behind the knee and a bit . . . ah, higher.” </p>
<p>Without further ado, the bottle of oil is passed over to him, and Aziraphale gets into position, fluffing up a pillow and laying down with his thighs slightly spread. Crowley has no choice but to climb onto the bed behind him, after first kicking off his shoes. They fall onto the carpet beneath with a gentle <i>thunk</i> that seems strangely loud in the otherwise quiet flat. The duvet - tartan, of course - is soft under his hands and knees, and Crowley is glad Aziraphale isn't watching him, the scramble of his gangly limbs as he tries to figure out the best approach. Finally, he straddles the affected leg awkwardly and squeezes a bit of the oil onto his palm, which quickly warms and runs between his fingers. He rubs his hands together and considers the state of Aziraphale laid out before him. His legs are still mostly covered by the robe, and for a moment Crowley wonders if he’d better perform the massage on the outside of it, but then he remembers the oil on his hands, and knows that Aziraphale can’t possibly want that. He wants Crowley’s hands on his bare skin. <i>Lubricated,</i> his brain supplies helpfully.</p>
<p>“I’ll just - ah - lift this out of the way, yeah?” Crowley uses his pinky finger, the only digit not coated in oil, to push up the tartan, unveiling the flesh of Aziraphale’s naked thighs. They are glorious, thick and luscious, and Crowley feels his trousers tighten as the blood rushes southward. It’s a miracle that his prick can find the motivation, honestly; he’s nearly wanked himself raw over the last few days. </p>
<p>He tries to put it out of his mind and begins a slow rub, up and down the back of Aziraphale’s leg, paying close attention to the places that Aziraphale has indicated are the most painful. The oil makes everything slippery and shiny. And Aziraphale’s skin! It’s soft as butter, his plump thighs ripe under the pressure of Crowley’s fingers. He watches, transfixed, as the pale skin turns pink from attention, and Aziraphale shifts a little on the bed, making a contented sound. </p>
<p>“This good, angel?” </p>
<p>“Mmm-hmm,” Aziraphale says, sounding drowsy. His robe is just barely kissing his upper thighs at this point, and it is clear he’s not wearing pants at all. Crowley tries not to stare at the dark crevasse between his parted legs - he can’t quite see what lies beyond, and bless him, does he want to. But Aziraphale doesn’t give him any explicit instructions. He simply lets Crowley continue his ministrations, his sighs of pleasure driving Crowley to distraction. The globes of his arse wiggle with the more forceful rubs, and Crowley can’t help imagining what it would feel like to let his cock slide between those cheeks, covered in oil - oh, Someone save him! </p>
<p>“Mmmmm.” Aziraphale’s murmur sounds more like a moan this time, and Crowley leans forward, fingertips skirting just under the hem of the robe. The smell of arousal fills the air as he does so, and Crowley knows he isn’t imagining it as Aziraphale shifts his hips against the bed. </p>
<p>Fingers shaking, Crowley picks up the bottle of oil to replenish, then returns to rubbing circles on Aziraphale’s upper inner thighs. He moves very slowly, giving Aziraphale the chance to tell him to stop, knowing that he won’t. It is beyond titillating. It is the single most erotic thing he has ever done in his life. He reaches higher, satisfied that Aziraphale wants this, and is rewarded when his fingertips graze the wet, swollen flesh of Aziraphale’s pussy. He is soaked, and the oil only makes things more decadent. Crowley slides his forefinger between the slick folds and rubs there, working forward until he discovers the nub of Aziraphale’s clit. Now using two fingers, he traps the bud of flesh between them and Aziraphale shakes and moans, legs splayed out to give Crowley easier access. </p>
<p>No longer in need of disassembly, Crowley pushes the robe out of the way so he can see everything. After all, this might be the only time he gets to see, and he's intent to look his fill. Aziraphale’s arse is stunning. He barely resists leaning down to give it a bite. His sex is dark pink, pretty and as open as a flower. Crowley is delighted to discover that Aziraphale has given himself the whole arrangement - his delicately furled arsehole beckons for Crowley’s fingers too. </p>
<p>Aziraphale’s back rises and falls with his breath, which is coming quickly now. His eyes are closed, lips bitten. Crowley drizzles a bit of oil between his cheeks and uses one hand to massage there while he rubs at Aziraphale’s cunt with the other. He is rewarded with a keening moan and even more wetness spilling over his fingers. Aziraphale’s body is hungry for this - hungry for him - and Crowley is more than willing to satisfy. He pushes two fingers inside Aziraphale’s cunt and begins a slow thrust, then changes the angle so that he can penetrate the angel’s arse with his thumb at the same time. Aziraphale loves it. He moves in little gyrating circles against Crowley’s hand. He’s warm inside and soft as velvet, and Crowley wonders if any other lucky bastard has had him before. He wishes he could ask, but he knows that if he does, this might be over in seconds. They are dancing on a knife edge here, a delicate balance that could be ruined by the slightest misstep. </p>
<p>Still, he can’t quite keep his thoughts to himself. He finds himself murmuring quiet nonsensical praise, petting Aziraphale’s flank even as he fucks him more vigorously with his fingers. He varies it up here and there, stroking the outside of Aziraphale’s pussy and then pushing inside, this time with three, the angel is so ready for more. He’s so sweet and greedy, shameless without saying a word. Crowley wants him to open his eyes, but they remain resolutely closed. He tells himself he’s okay with that. Everything starts to come together. He can tell the angel is close from the way his thighs start to tense and shake. It’s incredible, being able to read his body like this, being gifted with this intimate knowledge.</p>
<p>The angel clamps down on him like a vise, and he feels the climax ripple around his hand, around his thumb and fingers sunk deep inside. He hears a whisper - his name, he thinks - but it is too quiet for him to really be sure. </p>
<p>When the pulses subside, Crowley withdraws his hand but keeps petting his angel, giving him gentle strokes until he is calm, his breathing deep and even. Crowley isn’t sure what the etiquette is, whether Aziraphale will be bothered if he takes his own matters into hand, as it were. He’s so hard he’s pretty sure he might discorporate if he doesn’t find some release. Decision made, he reaches into his fly and pulls out his throbbing cock. He gives himself three quick strokes and then he’s spilling into his cupped palm, his orgasm ripped out from somewhere deep in his guts, his balls aching as they empty. </p>
<p>Everything is a mess. The oil, the come, Aziraphale’s slick - Crowley thinks about it for one second and then miracles them both dry. He pulls Aziraphale’s robe down to cover his arse, feeling suddenly protective, and he is waiting for Aziraphale to open his eyes and say something, when he realises with a shock that the angel is asleep. </p>
<p>His lips are gently parted, and he is completely relaxed, body melted into the mattress. Crowley didn’t even know that the angel <i>could</i> sleep. He’s never done it in front of Crowley before. </p>
<p>“Bollocks,” he whispers to himself. He climbs off the bed carefully, so as not to jostle Aziraphale, and then he goes into the kitchen in search of something hard to drink. There is a bottle of his favorite whisky in the wine cupboard, and he takes it down, pouring himself a generous measure and drinking it in two large gulps. He refills his glass and starts to pace back and forth, wondering if he should leave or stay - the former seems callous, even for a demon, so he opts for the latter, bringing the bottle of whisky into the small sitting room to wait. </p>
<p>Night falls quickly and after a couple more drinks, Crowley is loose-limbed and tired. He only means to close his eyes for a moment, but he finds himself startled awake by the sound of something thumping to the floor. He comes alert instantly, heart hammering, only to find Aziraphale standing a few paces away, picking up a rather large leather-bound book from where it has fallen. <i>War and Peace</i>, the cover reads. Aziraphale is once again dressed, but he’s wearing white slippers with little bunny ears on them. Crowley wants to make fun of him, and of course on any other day he’d be unable to resist, but tonight he simply can’t.</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry to have woken you, my dear. I was just looking for some light reading to pass the time.” Aziraphale holds out the book sheepishly. </p>
<p>The angel’s definition of light reading is another subject that could easily be mocked - but it’s also adorable. Crowley rolls his shoulders and yawns, trying to tamp down all the warm, fuzzy feelings in his chest that absolutely do not belong there. “What time is it, anyway?” </p>
<p>“About half past three in the morning. I woke up a little while ago myself.” Aziraphale sits down on the chair opposite. The tiny room feels even smaller with the two of them close together. “I can’t even remember the last time I slept so deeply. I must have been very relaxed.” </p>
<p>“Hmm. Yeah. You - ah - seemed to be.” Crowley tries to hold back his smirk but mostly fails. Another part of him, however, the one prone to self-doubt, rapidly reasserts itself. He wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers and bites his lower lip, watching as Aziraphale settles into the soft chair and opens the book on his lap. He doesn’t seem to be at all perturbed or embarrassed by what had happened, yet also doesn’t seem to be ready to acknowledge it, either. Crowley lets out a curious hum, which does the trick of getting Aziraphale’s attention. </p>
<p>“So the leg,” Crowley says. “Feeling better?” </p>
<p>“Oh, much.” </p>
<p>“Seems like we might have hit on a successful therapy.” </p>
<p>“It does, yes. I hope it’s not too much trouble for you.” </p>
<p>Crowley stares at him. He really isn’t sure whether Aziraphale is having him on. “Trouble isn’t the word for it, no.” </p>
<p>“I would say it’s very kind of you, but I won’t.” </p>
<p>“Best not. I don’t think ‘kind’ is the word I’d use, either.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale shifts a little in his seat. He looks at his book and then back at Crowley.They obviously both know that the massage is not a mere treatment for Aziraphale’s leg, but Crowley absolutely refuses to be the first to admit it. The angel is the one who has a problem talking about his desires, after all. Not Crowley. Crowley is perfectly capable of expressing himself if he chooses to. He is simply choosing not to in this case, because Azirapahle is one stubborn bastard. </p>
<p>Crowley gives Aziraphale a little smile and leans back in his chair again, putting his hands behind his head. His shins bump the little table as he stretches out his legs. “I think I might sleep again, angel, if it’s all the same to you. You don’t mind?” </p>
<p>“No, no, my dear, go right ahead. Make yourself at home.” </p>
<p>Closing his eyes, Crowley tries to drift off, but every little movement from across the room has his heart thudding. It’s utterly ridiculous to be acting this way. He should get up and go back to his own flat, but he can’t bring himself to move. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to prove by staying - that he isn’t bothered? That he wants to do it again? He squints his eyes open just a crack and snaps them shut again when he finds Aziraphale gazing in his direction. </p>
<p>Some time later, a warm blanket that smells faintly of Aziraphale is draped over his lap. It’s only then that he falls asleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Do you think they'll be able to get through the whole Kama Sutra without talking about it? I guess we'll find out . . . stay tuned!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“The thing is,” Crowley says, waving around his glass of wine, which sloshes precariously but doesn’t spill because he would prefer it not to, “bees - they’re the thing. They’re dying. I think . . . they’re the pollinators. Very important. No one knows why - some disease making them go crazy. Maybe pesticides.” He takes a full sip of wine while Aziraphale, on the other end of the long leather sofa, purses his lips. </p><p>The two of them have been drinking for the past three hours at Crowley’s flat after an obnoxiously long, indulgent omakase dinner at the angel’s favorite new sushi spot. Crowley had eaten little - some miso soup and uni - but they’d shared two bottles of warm sake and then moved on to prosecco, since Aziraphale claimed he was too full for red. </p><p>It’s nice, the pleasant sort of inebriation that only happens when he and the angel are spending time together getting slowly and steadily drunk and talking nonsense. He stretches and waits as Aziraphale tries to form his counter-argument. </p><p>“But we can’t interfere. It’s up to the humans to come up with a solution. They’re the ones who are destroying the environment.” </p><p>“So you think this is part of the Ineffable Plan, is that it?” Crowley snorts and takes another sip of his wine. “Teach the humans a lesson? I thought you’d know better by now, angel.” </p><p>Aziraphale huffs. “Well, there’s no way of knowing, is there? And besides, if I performed that sort of higher-order miracle, it would definitely get the attention of Upstairs. We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.” </p><p>Crowley clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He can’t really argue that point - he certainly doesn’t want the angel getting in trouble with his old bosses, not when they’re finally being left alone. Still, he likes sparring with Aziraphale. It’s fun, and he has an ace up his sleeve. “No more honey. No more jam or raspberry tarts. Forget cherries. Pears are out. I know how you like pears.” </p><p>“I do like pears.” Aziraphale frowns. </p><p>“And listen!” Crowley leans forward to go in for the kill. “The Almighty obviously knows how much you like them - knows everything, doesn’t She? Maybe She’s counting on you to do the right thing, angel, and save the bees.” </p><p>Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, taking a sip of wine. He’s much too far away on the sofa. “You do it, then. You heal the bees.” </p><p>“Me?” Crowley sputters. </p><p>“It could be that’s what the Almighty intends. For you to do it. For me.” </p><p>Crowley’s jaw nearly drops. This is the closest Aziraphale has ever come to acknowledging the long-standing dynamic between them, and it catches him so off-kilter, he can do nothing but reach for the half-empty bottle of wine on the table and pour himself another full glass. The bubbles fizz to the surface and pop, tiny little explosions that mimic the one going off in Crowley’s idiotic heart. Neither of them say anything for a long while, and when Crowley finally gets up the courage to glance over at Aziraphale, the angel is giving him little sideways glances and nervously plucking at a bit of fluff on his trousers. </p><p>“How’s the leg tonight?” Crowley asks. It’s been two weeks since the last time he ‘lent a hand,’ as it were, and of course they haven’t talked about it. To say that he would like it to happen again is the understatement of six millenia, but Crowley has begun to worry the angel regrets it, since he hasn’t initiated anything. </p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes snap to him. “It’s a little sore, now that you mention it.” He rubs at his knee and wiggles a bit in his seat. “I went to my masseuse yesterday, so it should be feeling better.” </p><p>A spike of jealousy spears through Crowley’s chest. No one else should be putting their hands on the angel, let alone some sweaty human male with bulging biceps - who, thanks to Crowley’s vivid imagination, he can picture quite vividly. What’s worse is that Aziraphale didn’t think to ask Crowley first if he was feeling pain, but of course it’s also selfish to feel that way. All of these emotions swirling around make Crowley’s head hurt. He’s too drunk for this. “Maybe he doesn’t have the right touch,” Crowley mutters.  </p><p>“I think you might be right, my dear. I’m . . . I thought of coming here, but I didn’t want to impose on you with my little problem. I know Fridays are your favourite days for temptations.” </p><p>Feeling suddenly contrite, Crowley sets down his glass of wine. Of course Aziraphale, being Aziraphale, would fuss and worry that he was asking more than Crowley was willing to give. He’s not sure how to make it much clearer that he’s more than up for the task. “Haven’t been tempting much, lately, to tell you the truth. Seems a bit pointless, really, with not needing to report back to head office.” </p><p>“Oh really? That’s wonderful! I mean, terrible. Er.” The angel bites his lower lip and looks at Crowley from under his lashes. “I hope you’re not too bothered by it?” </p><p>“Not at all. Gives me more free time, of course. Not saying I won’t ever get back to it - still a demon, after all.” </p><p>“Of course. I would never expect otherwise.” </p><p>The silence descends again, but this time it holds the weight of anticipation. Crowley slides closer on the sofa, feeling a bit more daring. The angel moves nearer, too, until they are sitting side-by-side. </p><p>“Would you like a little help now, angel? With your leg?” </p><p>“Oh yes,” Aziraphale breathes, and there's no mistaking the expression on his face, the pink blush spreading across his cheeks. </p><p>“Out here, or in - we could go to my bedroom, if you want. Might be more, ah, comfortable.” </p><p>“That sounds divine.” </p><p>Crowley rolls his eyes slightly and stands, offering Aziraphale a hand up. Aziraphale is a bit unsteady on his feet, whether it’s because of the wine or his leg, Crowley isn’t sure. They could both sober up at any time, but neither suggests it, and Crowley is extra careful as he guides Aziraphale down the long hall toward the bedroom he has never seen before. Once inside, he watches Aziraphale’s response - how he takes in the large, luxurious silk-covered bed in the center of the room. It’s the sort of bed made just for fucking, though Crowley doesn’t do much of that these days, either. Except if his own hand counts - or this, whatever it is. </p><p>“It’s very you,” Aziraphale says finally, smiling a little. He toes off his leather brogues and sits at the edge of the bed. “Shall I, ah, disrobe?” </p><p>“If you’re comfortable with that, yeah. I’ll just -” He flounders a little, not sure what Aziraphale expects - for him to leave the room, to turn his back. He opts for the latter, averting his gaze and setting his glasses on the bedside table while the angel rustles behind him. It takes a long time - all of those buttons - and Crowley desperately wishes he was the one undoing them, one-by-one, that he could have a part in that simple intimacy.</p><p>Finally, the angel says, “I’m ready,” and Crowley turns around. He’s not expecting the sight he finds - Aziraphale, fully nude, lying on Crowley’s bed like he’s on the cover of a naughty magazine, or the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. </p><p>Feeling slightly overdressed and a little faint, Crowley takes one step toward the bed, then another, his feet and legs working mechanically while he tries to rein in what’s going on down below - all the blood in his corporation rushing southward. Aziraphale is glorious from his sturdy chest to his plump belly and those perfect thick thighs. The petite blond thatch of hair between his legs is so pale as to be almost translucent, and it doesn’t do anything to hide the dark pink of his sex. </p><p>“I hope this is okay,” Aziraphale says, putting his arms behind his head. “I’m usually in the nude when I visit Jorge.” </p><p>“Jorge,” Crowley says, working his tongue around the name like a bad taste in his mouth. </p><p>“Yes. It’s customary.” </p><p>“Customary,” Crowley repeats, feeling slightly like a broken record. He files the information about Jorge away for later, when he has the brain capacity to deal with things rationally. Right now, if he thinks about it too much, some innocent human is going to end up with their house in flames. </p><p>He crawls onto the bed, thinking belatedly of oil. He has lubricant, of course - he has to survive somehow - but no massage oil. A quick miracle solves that problem, and Aziraphale watches as Crowley pours a bit of the stuff onto his palm, and then a bit more for good measure. “All right,” he says under his breath, and reaches out. </p><p>Humans have a thing about touch, Crowley knows. They need it more than they need food - can’t even develop properly without it. Crowley knows all about the Romanian orphanages in the 80’s and 90’s - it wasn’t something he had anything to do with - too grotesque, even for Hell. Kids are Crowley’s hard limit. He likes the little buggers and the chaos they bring.</p><p>Anyway. Touch is something for humans, and Crowley has been very careful not to think about its lack in his life. Demons don’t touch each other for connection or comfort. They do it to inflict pain, not take it away. It isn’t something he’s supposed to want, and it isn’t something angels ever really do, either, aside from the laying of hands to bless or heal - but even that is transactional, a duty to be performed that is over as quickly as it begins. This, the gentle slide of hands over warm skin, the luxury of time spent in service of another’s need - it makes Crowley’s head spin with yearning. And maybe it is because they have been on Earth for too long, but they’re on their own side now, so who really cares? </p><p>This time, Aziraphale’s eyes stay open. Perhaps his inhibitions have been lowered by the alcohol, or maybe there’s another reason, but he watches as Crowley begins the now familiar rubdown, working up from Aziraphale’s knee to the solid muscle of his thigh. There is a knot of tension there, deep in the tissue, and Crowley works at it with his thumbs until he feels it soften and give way. Aziraphale sighs and seems to relax further, his legs gently falling open to give Crowley a peek what lies between. He is glistening, obviously aroused, and Crowley can’t help but respond to the sight, his prick aching in the confines of his tight trousers. He moves to squirt a bit more oil onto his hands, but the bottle is slippery. It goes everywhere, and he curses as he tries to get the cap back on. </p><p>Aziraphale clears his throat. “If you’d like to . . . you could remove your clothing. I’d hate for you to ruin your things.” </p><p>Neither of them mentions how a quick miracle could get rid of the mess. Crowley swallows and sets the bottle to the side, aware of the angel watching this awkward shuffle on his knees. He fumbles with the button fly at his crotch, finally gets it open and wriggles out of the oil-slick denim. His obvious erection strains against the black fabric of his briefs, a little patch of wetness at the head, and Crowley digs his fingernails into his palm to try to get control of himself. </p><p>“Sorry, ah, sort of an automatic response,” he says by way of explanation, blushing furiously, but the angel only gives him a little smile. </p><p>“It’s quite all right, my dear. Only natural. I don’t mind if you’d like to take those off as well.” </p><p>Crowley hisses through his teeth as he does as the angel asks, removing his briefs and, fuck it, his shirt, because it’s ridiculous to wear one with no pants on. His head is a muddle. He’s not sure what they are doing anymore, but his prick certainly has some of its own ideas.</p><p>Aziraphale’s gaze is quite heated now, travelling over his body, and Crowley feels inspected, but not in a bad way. It is as though the angel is drinking him in, memorizing his awkward angles and lines, and it makes him feel cherished, which is absurd. Neither of them says anything as Crowley returns to his task, his slippery hands moving over the angel’s plump thigh, then back down to his knee, then up higher once more. He stops just short of Aziraphale’s groin, but after a few passes, Aziraphale makes a little sound of frustration and widens his legs. </p><p>Bless it, the angel smells delicious, ripe and ready for the taking. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he tracks Crowley’s movements, and with a silent acknowledgement passing between them, Crowley reaches to pet the angel’s swollen sex. He knows what Aziraphale likes now, and he quickly finds a rhythm, working the nub of his needy clit and then pressing two fingers inside his warm, welcoming cunt. Aziraphale makes a breathless noise and shifts against him, his hips working in urgent circles, and it’s only seconds later that he’s coming apart, spasming on Crowley’s fingers. </p><p>It’s faster than it ever has been before, and doesn’t that make Crowley just a little proud, but also a little disappointed, because he could go all night but they certainly aren’t at that stage in their non-relationship. </p><p>“Don’t stop,” Aziraphale whispers. He bites his lower lip, which plumps under his teeth, and Crowley lets himself lean closer, nearer to his prize. The angel gives a barely perceptible nod, and then Crowley is between his thighs like a starving man. The taste is sweet and musky, more delicious than he even imagined - neither human nor ethereal, but some mix of the two. He sucks the angel’s clit into his mouth and runs his tongue around the hood, and Aziraphale shudders with the sensation, his thighs clamping around Crowley’s head. Luckily, he doesn’t need to breathe, and he slides his tongue down between the pretty folds, up to his clit and then back down until he’s frigging the angel with his mouth. </p><p>Aziraphale is wetter and more open than ever before. Crowley can’t help it if he goes a little snakey. His tongue knows the path to take, and he pushes it inside slowly until the angel is all around him, squeezing him and pulsing with a second climax. A burst of sweetness erupts from cunt, and Crowley takes everything. He’s vaguely aware of his own unbearable arousal; he is grinding against the sheets, prick hard as an iron bar. Aziraphale’s hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, and he keeps at his task, going until Aziraphale climaxes a third and final time. </p><p>When Crowley is finally released from the sweet prison of Aziraphale’s thighs, he is desperate to get a hand on himself. He leans over Aziraphale, bracing himself with one arm as he strokes quickly, unable to stop himself from shouting out in ecstasy as his come paints the angel’s stomach in ribbons of white. He watches, transfixed, as it goes on and on, but shame is not far behind. It’s obscene, the streak of his orgasm on Aziraphale’s unblemished skin. He needs it gone, to miracle it away - to - Aziraphale reaches out and holds his hand. </p><p>“Just . . . leave it a moment, will you?” </p><p>Crowley doesn’t know what to say to that other than, “ah, okay,” and then he is sliding off to the side, heaving himself onto his back next to Azirapahle. They are both naked. There is no getting around that this was sex; the air is redolent with it. Aziraphale’s hair curls with sweat just over the top of his ear. He is utterly debauched and so unbearably lovely. </p><p>Of course what comes out of Crowley’s mouth is, “So, better than Jorge?” He winces at the tone in his voice, his obvious jealousy. </p><p>“Yes, dear, much.” Aziraphale, the bastard, gives him a little smirk, obviously not intending to give anything more away. Crowley knows he is being ridiculous. People have massages every day that don’t end with tongue-fucking - the majority, even! He crosses his arms over his chest and absolutely does not pout. </p><p>Demons don’t pout - ever. </p><p>“Well,” Aziraphale says some time later, a little more brightly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m peckish. You don’t happen to have any of that delightful goat cheese in, do you my dear? It would be perfect with some honey.” </p><p>“I can rustle something up,” Crowley says, climbing off the bed and going for his silk robe, which hangs on the back of the door. </p><p>Aziraphale smiles after him. “Oh, thank you. I’ll be with you in a moment.” <i>Just have to clean off your jizz,</i> he doesn’t say, but the sentiment is heavily implied. Crowley leaves him to it and goes in search of cheese and honey, thinking of bees, and miracles, and what to do if you're in love with your best friend.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three days later, Aziraphale calls Crowley out of the blue and proposes a picnic. Crowley, who has been doing his best not to pine thus far has achieved only moderate success, is instantly transported back fifty years, to a night he has ruminated over ever since, sometimes angrily, sometimes despondently. <i>You go too fast for me, Crowley.</i></p><p>“A picnic?” he says, voice going high-pitched before he manages to modulate his tone. “Yeah. I guess that would be all right.” </p><p>“I thought we could drive to the Downs. Picnic on the bluffs, if it’s not too windy.” There’s a bit of an insinuation in his voice, and Crowley picks up on it instantly.  </p><p>“I’m sure it won’t be too windy, angel.” </p><p>“Pick me up at eleven tomorrow, my dear. I’ll have all the necessaries arranged, so don’t trouble yourself. Just leave it all to me.” </p><p>They ring off, and Crowley has fifteen hours to consider what this means. They have never been on a picnic, not in six thousand years, though they have eaten together in every other conceivable formation. Aziraphale doesn’t do anything without intention. Crowley is reasonably certain that this picnic is significant, perhaps even marking a new phase of their relationship, one in which Crowley does not go too fast, but just fast enough. It is certainly not cool of him to care this much, but he is alone and Hell isn’t watching so he spends the rest of the evening with a tumbler of whisky and his favourite episodes of the Golden Girls. </p><p>In the morning, he picks Aziraphale up at the designated time and watches the angel bundle down the steps with his basket of goodies, an extra bag slung over his shoulder, which, upon closer inspection, holds a soft tartan blanket. Crowley helps him with the boot - it’s a bit persnickety for anyone but Crowley - while he watches the angel out of the corner of his eye. He looks a bit flushed, even for carrying a heavy load, and he gives Crowley a smile that is almost shy. </p><p>“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “It’s looking like it’ll be quite a lovely day.” </p><p>“Should be. How’s the leg feeling?” </p><p>“It’s . . . not bad at all today, truthfully.” </p><p>“Ah, well, that’s . . . that’s great.” It’s fine, really. He’s glad that the angel isn’t in pain, but with the lack of convenient excuse, Crowley resigns himself to the fact that this is going to be a very platonic picnic.</p><p>Back in the car and on the road, they bicker over the radio and Crowley’s driving, as always. The angel’s scent is even more distracting than usual. Though Crowley hasn’t taken his snake form in ages, he still has his amplified sense of smell, which seems to have become even more attuned to Aziraphale over the past months, ever since they began this bizarre mating ritual. </p><p>Mating ritual, that’s a strange thought to have. Crowley shakes his head and tries to focus on the road. The last thing he needs is to get them inconveniently discorporated right when things are getting interested. He doubts Hell will ever give him a new body now, since the true extent of his <i>fraternizing</i> is common knowledge. </p><p>They drive until the road narrows and the countryside is dotted with cottages and sheep, and they finally arrive at the spot Aziraphale has chosen, a huge grassy hill with a spectacular view overlooking the valley, with only a few trees here and there for shade. They retrieve the picnic and make their way towards one, the sky a brilliant clear blue above them. It isn’t windy at all, thanks to Crowley, and there are no humans about either. If Aziraphale notices their unusual absence - this is, after all, a very touristy locale under normal circumstances- he lets his observation pass unremarked. </p><p>Once the tartan is spread and the provisions are dispersed, Crowley leans back against the tree and allows himself the unfettered pleasure of staring at the angel as he murmurs and exclaims and rolls his eyes with delight. He offers Crowley a bit of this or that, which Crowley takes obediently - a smoked oyster here, a bit of blue-veined cheese there - and sips as Aziraphale fills and refills his stemless wine glass. The whole time, they are talking nonsense as usual, and as the meal ends and they open their second bottle, Aziraphale clears away the mess and comes a bit closer to escape the sun, which has begun to creep across the blanket. </p><p>“I know you’re not much for dessert my dear,” Aziraphale says, pulling out one final item - a small box of chocolate. “But you must absolutely try one of these fleur de sel caramels from that new shop.” </p><p>Crowley does, obediently, his fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s as he takes the candy and pops it into his mouth. It’s delicious, of course, like everything else Aziraphale has brought, and the creamy caramel melts over his tongue, the salt accenting and balancing the sweetness. It’s decadent, and Crowley realises he’s eaten and enjoyed the food more than he has in a long, long time. He feels . . . content. It’s strange. He sets his wine glass down on the blanket, giving it a silent order not to spill. </p><p>“Did you like it?” Aziraphale asks, sounding hopeful.</p><p>“Mmm-hmm.” </p><p>“I’m so glad. I wanted the opportunity to spoil you a bit today, my dear. Would you like to take a nap, perhaps? Or shall I read some poetry aloud?”</p><p>“If you like. I’m fine just sitting here, but I don’t mind you reading,” he says, wondering what has gotten into the angel. Aziraphale has never been so solicitous toward him; the closest instance he can remember is the night they’d met in Rome and dined at Petronius’s, but even then Aziraphale hadn’t gone so far as to offer him nibbles by hand. But then again, they have never been on a picnic before - and this is a picnic. It is extremely possible that this is actually a <i>date.</i>  </p><p>The angel is still going on. “How about taking your boots off? Wouldn’t that be nice? Let your feet get some air?” </p><p>“My boots?” Crowley wriggles his toes in his boots, which really are very comfortable, since he wouldn’t allow them to be otherwise. He’s still reeling from the idea that it is very possible Aziraphale is attempting to romance him. Aziraphale is giving him that look - that pleading look - and Crowley has no choice but to toe off the leather boots, not really understanding what is going on - at least, not until Aziraphale scooches over and takes one of his feet in hand, then places it onto his lap. </p><p>“A little foot rub will be just the thing,” says the angel, and proceeds to mash his thumbs into the arch of Crowley’s left foot. “Better take the socks off,” he mutters to himself. The black wool is peeled off and discarded, and Crowley only has a moment to worry about what his feet look like before Aziraphale is back at it, a very determined expression on his face. Crowley tries to relax, but his mind is whirling.</p><p>“Oh, you still have scales here, how beautiful!” Aziraphale teases the bottom of his foot with one well-manicured finger, running it up the arch where the scales thicken and fan out before stopping right below his ankle. They’re glossy and black with just a hint of red on the very bottom, but Crowley has never thought of them as beautiful. He used to be ashamed, and now only feels neutral - but Aziraphale is staring at him like the scales are a marvel. </p><p>“I always did think you made a very handsome snake,” Aziraphale continues, sounding almost wistful. “Although I do prefer your current shape. It would be quite difficult to go out to dinner with a very large reptile.” He laughs. </p><p><i>Or to get a massage from one,</i> Crowley can’t help thinking. </p><p>Aziraphale is . . . not very good at foot rubs, it turns out. He puts too much pressure on the sensitive bits and not enough pressure on the bits that could use a good seeing to. He is very enthusiastic, however, and Crowley doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. And in the end it’s the enthusiasm, in addition to the hint of pink tongue sticking out from between Aziraphale’s lips as he concentrates, that eventually leads Crowley down the path to a very noticeable bulge in his trousers.  </p><p>It’s his own fault, really, all in the name of fashion, but then again he never expected to find himself in this situation. He could miracle it away, but it’s not a very pleasant sensation, and it’s also too late. </p><p>Aziraphale has obviously noticed. His gaze darts from the feet in his lap to Crowley’s erection, which is trapped very uncomfortably against his thigh, and then back again. Their eyes lock. A faint flush rises on the back of the angel’s neck and reddens his ears, which Crowley likes very much. It makes the angel smell even warmer and sweeter, and that doesn’t do much to help Crowley’s situation. </p><p>Crowley is just about to make an offhand comment to diffuse the tension when Aziraphale surprises him. Shocks him, even. </p><p>Still looking at him, the angel reaches out and strokes him through his trousers. His cock throbs at the contact, and it’s only by virtue of luck that Crowley is able to capture the needy whine threatening to escape his lips. Aziraphale’s fingers are tentative at first, gently learning the outline of him, and then oh Heaven - he squeezes. Crowley does let out a sigh, then, and his legs fall open wider in encouragement. He lets Aziraphale do as he likes, but it doesn’t take long before he is leaking considerably in his pants, the sticky slickness adding an urgency to get his prick out. Someone, does he want to get his prick out. He can’t help thrusting his hips against the tentative touches, wanting more but afraid to ask. <i>Don’t go too fast, let him set the pace.</i> </p><p>Aziraphale grows bolder, and before long Crowley does get his wish. His flies are undone, and he is finally in the angel’s hand. </p><p>God, he looks obscene, jutting out from the slit in his trousers, hard as nails. Aziraphale gives him a proper stroke, root to tip, and his prick beads out another drop of slickness. Crowley fists the tartan and does his best not to move, not to say anything, but he’s about to embarrass himself already, and Aziraphale - well, he looks fascinated. He stares, lips parted slightly as he gains a rhythm, giving a little twist at the head, which makes Crowley’s eyes roll back. It’s clear he’s done this before, at least to himself, and that thought alone has Crowley’s balls tightening up, his belly aching deep. It feels like being trapped in the shallows with the tide coming in, the waves roll and roll until everything crests. Crowley groans and comes, pulsing all over the angel’s hand. </p><p>When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is watching him with wary eyes. The mess has already been miracled away. Perfunctorily. </p><p>It’s an odd feeling when a fantasy finally comes true, especially when it’s served with a bitter dose of reality. Crowley has wanted this as long as he’s wanted the angel - but he certainly doesn’t want it to be an obligation. A tit for tat, simply because of what he’s done for Aziraphale. He wants Aziraphale to want this - to want him. To more than want.</p><p>He tucks himself back into his trousers and does up the fly, trying to find the words to get them out of . . . whatever mess they have themselves in. It’s never been so personal before, and he needs to get this right. He needs to choose his words with care. </p><p>“Aziraphale,” he begins, but that doesn’t sound right at all. “Angel.” </p><p>“Crowley, I . . . I’m sorry if I overstepped.” </p><p>“If you - what?” Crowley frowns. </p><p>“I may have gotten ahead of myself. I should have asked if you wanted reciprocation. I shouldn’t have assumed simply because - it was just in the moment, you see -” Aziraphale worries his hands together, looking very flustered and ashamed. </p><p>“Wait, wait, angel. That’s what I wanted to talk about. You don’t need to feel obligated to do that. Any of this.” He gestures around. There is a cold ball of dread forming in the pit of his stomach, and he’s not even sure why. “I’m not asking for it, not if it’s not - I don’t want you to worry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” </p><p>“I think I’ve made a mistake.” Aziraphale’s voice goes thin and reedy. </p><p>Ah, that’s it then. The ball solidifies and freezes all of Crowley’s unnecessary internal organs. Heart? Who needs it? “Oh,” he says dumbly. “Right. Got it.” </p><p>“Perhaps we should pick up and go home. It looks like it might storm after all.” </p><p>“Sure.” Crowley miracles his boots back on because he can’t bear to fuss over them. He stands and watches as Aziraphale folds the blanket and gathers the last of their belongings. The walk back to the Bentley is excruciating, and the drive home even more so. The radio plays “The Show Must Go On” on a loop until Crowley has half a mind to rip the thing out and throw it out the window, but finally stabs it off with a flourish. The ensuing silence is deafening. Right outside of London grey clouds roll in, and in a valiant expression of the pathetic fallacy, open up a deluge just as they arrive at the bookshop. </p><p>Aziraphale pauses with his hand on the door latch, and Crowley can’t help thinking back again to that night in Soho. <i>Maybe one day, we could go for a picnic.</i> Neither of them speaks, and Crowley swallows down the bile in his throat. He thinks of the bandstand, and the tears in Aziraphale's eyes when he'd said, "I don't even like you." He thinks of asking Aziraphale to come away, and the <i>I forgive you</i> that had cut like a knife. </p><p>“I’ll see you,” he says. “Right?” </p><p>“Of course.” Aziraphale gives him a bland smile. “Mind how you go.” </p><p>The door slams shut behind him. So that is how it’s going to be, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale disappears quickly into the bookshop, and Crowley watches the lights come on. No. He’s damned if that’s how it’s going to be. </p><p>He snorts at himself. He’s damned either way.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*bangs their heads together* </p><p>Sorry this chappie was a bit of a downer! I promise things are going to get better - two more chapters to go.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They are avoiding each other. One week goes by, and then two - a tiny blip of time in the grand scheme of things, but an excruciating slog when compared to the recent days of companionship they’ve enjoyed. Without the angel by his side, Crowley finds himself walking down the street and making offhand comments to no one in particular and receiving some very strange looks from passersby. He makes a face back - sometimes a very demonic face - and enjoys a few seconds of sheer terror before the fun of it wears off, and he’s back on a park bench or at a long, polished mahogany bar - alone. </p><p>He’s the serpent of Eden, for Someone’s sake.</p><p>He was there at the tower of Babel. </p><p>He took Jesus Christ to visit all the kingdoms of the world. <i>They had a marvelous time, for the record, no matter what the Bible says.</i> </p><p>He stopped time and helped stop the end of the world. </p><p>So certainly it’s ridiculous for him to be avoiding an angel, and not even a high ranking angel - sure, Aziraphale is powerful enough, but he’s not exactly management. </p><p>Thank fuck. Because aside from the lot of them being wankers, if Aziraphale was management, he never would have given Crowley the time of day on the wall in Eden, and Crowley would have never known what it is to have a best friend. </p><p>Still, he doesn’t know why he should have to be the one to clear the air between them. For once, let it be Aziraphale. After all, what has Crowley done wrong? He’s only ever tried to please the angel, hasn’t he? He’s only ever put him first. If he really lets himself, Crowley is sure he could work himself into an indignant rage over all he has done for Aziraphale, and how little he has gotten in return. </p><p>But that’s not really true, is it?  What’s truer is that the angel has never been able to express himself honestly where Crowley is concerned. Crowley knows that, and he knows how hard it was for Aziraphale to break with Heaven - to disobey - and that he still feels guilty for it. Aziraphale’s words have always been at odds with his actions. He has insisted they are enemies, on opposing sides while at the same time inviting Crowley in for tea and putting himself in ridiculously dangerous situations to seek out his company. <i>I don’t even like you.</i> They’d both known that wasn’t true. </p><p>And, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s never really given his own feelings away, now has he? Even if the thousand things he has done for the angel scream the truth, he has been afraid. </p><p>“Bugger,” he mutters into his empty scotch glass. The bartender gives him a sidelong look and raises the bottle. </p><p>“Another, mate?” </p><p>“Nah, m’fine,” Crowley says, pushing it away. Best friends. That’s what they are at the end of the day, everything else aside, and if Aziraphale is too stubborn or scared to reach out to him, Crowley will have to be the brave one. It hurts a little, but the estrangement is worse. He throws down a few notes and sobers up before strutting out of the bar and heading down the sidewalk; it’s only a few blocks to Soho and the bookshop. </p><p>Aziraphale isn’t at home. It’s not so unusual, Crowley supposes, but it’s a bit of a letdown, as he’s gotten himself primed for whatever confrontation they’re going to have - or conversation, whatever. He dawdles at the locked door, wondering whether to stay or go or leave a note. Of course he can’t do something as practical as text Aziraphale, since he refuses to get a mobile. In the end, he loses steam and skulks away, no note written or left behind. He doesn’t have very good track records with them, anyway. </p><p>He certainly isn’t expecting to find Aziraphale standing at his own doorstep, looking fussy and lovely as ever in his tartan bow tie and waistcoat, if perhaps a little peaked. When he sees Crowley, he clasps his hands in front of his belly and makes a noise of surprise. </p><p>Crowley arches an eyebrow. “Hi angel, how’s it going?” He’s very proud at how breezy he manages to sound. It’s really a feat, seeing as though his pulse has skyrocketed from nothing at all to what would surely be heart attack range, if he’d been human.  </p><p>Aziraphale purses his lips. “Not terribly well, I must confess. May I come in?” </p><p>“Sure,” Crowley says with a casual shrug. He’s so glad to see him, he wants to wrap around him and never let go.</p><p>They enter the flat and Crowley closes the door behind them, locking it with a quick lift of his hand. It's a habit more than anything - if Hell wanted in, they could get in - but it makes him feel better all the same. Aziraphale seems to be limping slightly but putting on a brave face. He follows Crowley down the hall to the living room. </p><p>“You can ah, wait here,” Crowley says. “Sit, if you want.” </p><p>Aziraphale looks as though he might protest but does what he’s told. He folds his hands primly over his sore knee. </p><p>“I’ll get us some wine.” Crowley says, and then flees to the kitchen, panicking as begins he searches for wine glasses and a good bottle, one that Aziraphale will approve of, something red, maybe. He’s absolutely not thinking about what the angel might be here to say to him - all of the potentially devastating ways he might be about to get his heart, such as it is, broken. </p><p>Finally, he finds a Barolo he’d picked up in Italy twenty years before and is just about to miracle out the cork when he hears a throat clearing softly behind him. </p><p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Please, stop fussing with that and let me speak with you.” </p><p>Crowley turns around slowly. </p><p>Aziraphale stands in the doorway to the kitchen, hands in fists at his sides. He takes a tentative step closer, and then another. Crowley leans against the counter behind him, feeling suddenly in need of support. </p><p>“I’m afraid I’ve been terribly stupid, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He takes another few steps until he’s close enough for Crowley to see the green flecks in his blue eyes. “I’m here to apologize for how I behaved on our picnic. I should have told you from the very first—”</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley interrupts him. “You don’t need—”</p><p>“Don’t, please,” Aziraphale holds up a hand. “I must tell you, even at the risk of your rejection, that for the longest time, I’ve loved you above all else.” He swallows deeply, eyes shimmering as the words hit Crowley with the force of a ten-ton lorry. “I love you. And I desire you, as is perhaps now obvious. I know you must . . . care for me, but I want you to know that I don’t expect full reciprocation of my feelings. I will settle for friendship and count myself very lucky if that’s what you prefer. You are the world to me. There.” He gives Crowley a soft, sad smile, and Crowley realises he’s gaping like a large-mouthed bass. </p><p>“Wow,” says Crowley. </p><p>“Dear me,” Aziraphale says. “I hope that your speechlessness is a good sign.” </p><p>“It’s very good,” Crowley says, pushing away from the counter. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.” </p><p>“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale looks suddenly abashed, but hopeful. </p><p>“I do care for you, angel. I love you, too.” </p><p>“Oh, Crowley, really?” Aziraphale’s eyes shimmer, and Crowley reaches out to touch the soft curve of his jaw. </p><p>“‘Course.”  One beat passes, and then another, and the angel seems to be waiting for him to go on. “Thought it must be obvious by now.” </p><p>“Not entirely. Though of course I had hoped, especially after - ah - recent events.” He flushes slightly. “I wasn’t sure you were able to—” </p><p>Crowley lets his hand fall. “Yeah, well it’s not exactly in my job description, is it.” </p><p>“No, Crowley, you misunderstand me. I have never doubted your ability to love. I wondered if you would be able to love an angel, in spite of everything I . . . represent.” He glances upward, and Crowley gets the message immediately, even if it’s a ridiculous one. </p><p>“We’re on our own side, remember? Heaven, Hell, none of that matters anymore.” </p><p>“Even after all of the things I said to you.” </p><p>“Pfft. I know you didn’t really mean it.” </p><p>Aziraphale takes both of Crowley’s hands in his own. “I confess I'm not sure what to do next.” </p><p>“I think this is the part where you kiss me, angel.” </p><p>“Kiss you. Yes, that sounds right.” </p><p>Aziraphale steps closer and slowly, tentatively, reaches out to remove Crowley’s glasses and set them aside on the counter. Crowley allows it, blinking as the angel becomes more vivid in front of him. Without the protection of the darkened lenses, all of his fear, longing and happiness is right there for the angel to see. Aziraphale smiles at him, then brings one of his hands to the back of Crowley’s head. The gentle pressure guides him down, and Crowley’s lips connect with Aziraphale’s. Crowley feels slightly dazed with the way their mouths fit together. It’s such a human thing, this joining and connection. He has seen humans kiss countless times, and he has even done it a few himself in the line of duty, but the fact that it is Aziraphale, finally, the only one he has ever really wanted, makes his toes curl in his boots. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale to draw him closer and takes advantage of the angel’s gasp to deepen the kiss. </p><p>Their tongues slide together, a molten softness that has the opposite effect below the waist. If his body is immediately ready for more, his mind is quite content to stay here in his kitchen with Aziraphale in his arms, maybe for at least a week. </p><p>Aziraphale is not a practiced kisser, but he is enthusiastic and so perfectly responsive. He seems to be as affected as Crowley, what with the way his hips are pressing closer until they are backed right against the counter again. It triggers a primal instinct that makes Crowley want to do more than kiss—this is his mate, it whispers, he needs to be claimed—but he pushes it aside, concentrating all of his energy on the moment. Aziraphale’s mouth is insistent, moving against his, and his hands rove restlessly on Crowley’s back, along the curve of his spine and down to his arse, where he hesitates. </p><p>“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale finally says, sounding breathless. “Is . . . might it be possible for us to move somewhere more comfortable. Like your bed, perhaps?” </p><p>“Ah, yeah. Are you sure? You don’t want to go to dinner or something first? Maybe . . . take it slow?” </p><p>“We’ve been having dinner for over two thousand years. I think we can skip right to dessert.” </p><p>Crowley gives him what may very well be a feral grin. “Angel cake?” </p><p>“If you like.” </p><p>They somehow make it out of the kitchen and down the hall. Aziraphale is limping slightly, and so Crowley picks him up to cross the threshold to the bedroom and is rewarded by a squeak of surprise. It’s only a few steps more to the bed, which he then tosses the angel upon. He miracles their shoes away and chases Aziraphale down onto the soft sheets with another demanding kiss. </p><p>The buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat are impossible - one would think they would be easily undone with all of the years of wear, but either Aziraphale’s tailor is very good, or they’ve been subject to miraculous upkeep. They slip against Crowley’s clumsy fingertips as he tries to hold himself up with one hand and unfasten them with the other. Trying to do things the old fashioned way is overrated. “Damn it, angel. M’gonna miracle you naked.” </p><p>“So impatient,” Aziraphale huffs, sounding delighted. “But I’ve had this coat for over a hundred years and if you lose it, I’ll be very cross.” He takes over, deftly slipping the buttons out of their holes and shrugging out of the vest while Crowley pulls greedily at the shirt tucked underneath. That one is easier to remove, and Crowley discovers one last layer - a pristine white undershirt, which he pulls up and out of the way to get at the angel’s soft stomach. He kisses the skin to either side of the needless but adorable belly button and Aziraphale lets out a shaky laugh, his flesh quivering under Crowley’s lips. It’s too fucking good to be able to get at his angel like this, to be able to give into all of the impulses he’s had to hold back for so many years. He tugs down the trousers that are in his way and kisses the top of Aziraphale’s mound, doing his best not to tear the fabric as he does. </p><p>Finally, Aziraphale is undressed and Crowley can do what he likes. He’s a feast for the eyes - at first Crowley can only stare. </p><p>“What about you?” Aziraphale says breathlessly, glassy-eyed. Crowley is still mostly dressed, though they’ve somehow managed to unbutton his shirt. He doesn’t feel like fussing with it - he’s miracled the whole outfit into existence anyway - and so he gets rid of it with a quick snap of the fingers. </p><p>Aziraphale bites his lower lip, studying him, from his head down to his swaying erection, his knobby knees and bony feet. Crowley has never been properly naked in front of Aziraphale before. He doesn’t feel in the least self-conscious, strangely.</p><p>“You’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale says. Crowley flushes slightly at that, but he isn’t going to correct the angel, not if he likes what he sees. He leans down and captures Aziraphale’s mouth again, and Aziraphale widens his thighs to let Crowley between them. It goes on for some time like that, kissing and touching and learning the shape of each other with their hands. Eventually, Crowley’s cock slides against Aziraphale’s sex, so open and wet for him, and he hisses as the need to thrust inside overtakes him. He has to pull back and look down at Aziraphale’s face, make sure he’s ready. </p><p>“That okay?” He does it again and Aziraphale nods, grinding back against him so that the tip of Crowley’s cock is caught between slick folds. They share a groan as Crowley angles himself and starts to press in. When he’s about halfway inside, he feels a slight barrier. His mouth falls open. </p><p>“What the . . . you gave yourself a hymen?” </p><p>“I thought why not. When in Rome and all that.” </p><p>“We’re not in Rome anymore—but that’s beside the point. It’ll hurt.” </p><p>Aziraphale sets his mouth, determined. “I know it’s a little silly. Perhaps a bit of an outdated idea, but. Well. I’m a bit outdated myself. If you must know . . . I wanted to feel what it would be like for you to be my first.”    </p><p>“You can’t say things like that to me.” Crowley grits his teeth. </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>“Because.” Crowley grimaces, his whole body screaming to take - take - take. “It makes me go all . . . snakey. Makes me want to . . . make you mine.” </p><p>“That’s precisely what I would like. So, if you would. I can’t wait any longer. Just do it, please—” </p><p>Crowley thrusts, feeling something give way as he sheaths himself entirely in tight, wet heat. Aziraphale’s cunt spasms around Crowley’s cock, and a flash of pain crosses his features for a moment, before it is replaced with a look of bliss. He moans and holds onto Crowley’s shoulders, urging him on, but Crowley is pretty sure he’s going to come if he moves, so he bites the inside of his cheek and tries to remember that he’s a demon. He’s a demon. He doesn’t have to obey the physical dictates of his corporation. Doesn’t need to come until his angel does. </p><p>“You feel so good,” Aziraphale says. “My darling.” </p><p>“Yeah?” Crowley is throbbing, his whole body on fire with pleasure. </p><p>“Don’t worry about hurting me, dear. Please, I need more.” </p><p>“All right. All right, angel. Whatever you need.” </p><p>Crowley starts to rock into him, making sure to give his clit a nice slow grind on every thrust. Aziraphale is out of his mind for it. He kisses Crowley’s neck, bites at his shoulders, rakes his blunt nails down Crowley’s back and cups his arse with both hands. Crowley knows the angel is getting close as his sounds grow in urgency, until he ripples around Crowley’s cock and cries out. Crowley fucks him through it, and Aziraphale seems to open even more to him, shuddering with the aftershocks. </p><p>Eventually, when it becomes too much, Crowley breathes against the side of Aziraphale’s face, trying to calm himself, letting Aziraphale come down before they go on. </p><p>“How’s your leg?” Crowley is suddenly aware of how he must be putting pressure on the sore spots. He tries to lift his weight off but Aziraphale resists. </p><p>“It’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t you dare stop!” </p><p>“You want more?” Crowley asks, starting to pump his hips again when the angel begins to shift against him impatiently. </p><p>“Mmm, yes.” </p><p>Crowley wants to feel Aziraphale come again, wants to fill him up—his snakey hindbrain is suddenly very insistent. All sorts of very dirty fantasies spring to life in Crowley’s mind, and he grips the angel’s thick thighs in both hands, rearing up to get better leverage. From this vantage, he can enjoy watching his prick sliding in and out, the utterly debauched look on Aziraphale’s face as he stares, dazed, down at where they are joined. Crowley slips his fingers between them to feel it and then rubs along the sides of Aziraphale’s clit, stimulating the nerves without touching where he’s still sensitive. He almost comes himself, withdrawing with a muttered curse until he’s regained control. </p><p>“Oh, you must ache, my dear,” Aziraphale says, watching as Crowley holds himself at the base and breathes deeply. Precome is leaking steadily from his tip, and he’s as hard as he’s ever been. After a few more seconds, he slots himself back inside, going easy this time, now that the angel is completely relaxed. <i>His</i>.</p><p>Aziraphale seems content to let Crowley fuck him slowly for a little while, but soon grows impatient. Crowley puts his back into it, fucking the angel so hard the bed starts to shake. His whole body is tight as a bowstring, but he keeps going until Aziraphale is cresting again, and then a third time, until at last Crowley can let himself go. He focuses on the feeling deep in his gut, letting it blossom. The pleasure builds quickly, flooding down his spine to his toes and out of his prick, and he empties himself into his angel, folding over and kissing him again as his orgasm goes on and on. </p><p>After, they stay tangled like that, looking at each other, neither of them speaking. Aziraphale brushes his fingers against Crowley's jaw, looking at him like he's never seen him before, like he's a marvel. It’s stupidly romantic. Crowley can’t bring himself to move.</p><p>“That was perfect, my dear. You are an extremely talented lover.” </p><p>“Better than Jorge?” Crowley really can’t help himself. </p><p>Aziraphale lets out an exasperated sigh. “Crowley, I have never had sex with Jorge. What sort of masseuse do you think he is? He’s a respectable gentleman with a respectable business.” </p><p>“Well, you implied certain things, didn’t you, angel? What did you do that for - to make me jealous?” </p><p>Now Aziraphale looks slightly sheepish. “I confess I may have.” </p><p>“Well, it worked.” </p><p>“I probably should have just told you I loved you.” </p><p>“Probably.” </p><p>“But the massage . . . the illicitness of it. It was very erotic, was it not?” </p><p>Crowley looks down at his angel, sees the glint in his eye. “Yeah. I mean, I think you could tell how much I liked it.” He snorts, remembering his extremely visible reaction. </p><p>“I don’t see why we couldn’t do it again, from time to time. After all, I do have a sore leg. That part at least was real.” </p><p>Aziraphale is flushed pink, disheveled and lovely. Crowley gives him another kiss and gently eases away, thinking of drawing a nice, warm bath for the angel to soak in while he goes in search of some oil.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>They're finally sharing their brain cell! Hooray! </p><p>I want to thank everyone who has left a comment on this fic - my work/life 'balance' prohibits me from replying right now, but every one is read and treasured.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is a truth universally acknowledged that an angel in possession of a demonic lover must be in want of . . . nothing else at all. </p>
<p>Aziraphale folds the book he is reading onto his knee and gazes over at Crowley, who is on the other side of the room angrily spritzing one of the plants he’s brought over to Azirphale’s flat. Never being one for keeping them himself, mainly because he always forgets to water them until he finds a brown, shriveled pile of leaves abandoned somewhere in a corner, Aziraphale has nonetheless acquiesced to the new additions, knowing they make Crowley more comfortable. In the year since they began their more overt relationship, Aziraphale has, in kind, introduced a reasonable collection of his favourite books to Crowley’s flat, as well as more than a few kitchen items: teas, biscuits, mugs, woolen blankets and the like. He likes this slow migration of bits and bobs from each of their homes to the other’s, and not for the first time wonders if it wouldn't be wiser to combine their households—consolidate, as it were. </p>
<p>Tonight, however, they are at Aziraphale’s small flat, at his request. His stomach squirms with anticipation, and he can’t focus on his novel, so he gives up reading entirely and stands to rustle up a bottle of wine. Outside, the sky is darkening. Crowley mutters something under his breath at his plant and then sets the mister down on the shelf. </p>
<p>“White or red, dear?” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder, going to fetch it from the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Take a guess.” </p>
<p>“Red it is.” </p>
<p>He returns with a bottle in hand to find Crowley sprawled on the small sofa, his legs stretched languorously out in front. He smiles at Aziraphale and raises an eyebrow, watching with his hypnotic yellow eyes as Aziraphale opens the bottle and pours for each of them. The wine, a rare Bordeaux, is a light cherry red, and Aziraphale swirls his glass, admiring it - and even more, admiring the way Crowley’s long throat works as he swallows deeply, then smacks his lips and lets out a content sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. Crowley never wears his sunglasses anymore when they are alone together. </p>
<p>“That’s good stuff, angel. Special occasion?” Crowley takes another sip and swirls his glass. </p>
<p>Aziraphale savors the wine on his tongue and then does the same. “Of a sort.” </p>
<p>“Hmm? Have I missed something?” </p>
<p>“No, no, it’s silly. It’s just . . . it’s been a year since the day we first said I love you.” </p>
<p>“Has it?” Crowley looks bemused. “A year already?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale nods. “A year to the day. I thought we might celebrate. It’s a bit of a silly human notion, perhaps.” </p>
<p>“No, no no no,” Crowley shakes his head and sets down his glass of wine. “What did you have in mind?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’m afraid my leg has been acting up again, my dear. I was hoping that you might be able to help me get it back in good order.” </p>
<p>The non-sequitur throws Crowley for a moment. Aziraphale can see the wheels turning in his mind, the moment when he understands what is happening. The truth is his leg hasn’t bothered him in quite some time. </p>
<p>“Is that so?” Crowley says, steepling his fingers together. His eye glints as Aziraphale shifts a bit closer, rubbing his leg for dramatic effect.</p>
<p>“Yes, my dear. I’m in quite a lot of pain. Only some attention from your capable hands will do.” It has been months since he last required a massage, and the fact is he misses it, though he is more than satisfied with the new intimate arrangement he and Crowley have been enjoying. </p>
<p>“Well, I’d hate to leave you in pain, angel. You want to do it here?” </p>
<p>“Ah, the bedroom?” </p>
<p>Crowley gives him another sly smile and nearly slithers off the couch, extending his hand. Aziraphale takes it and huffs out a laugh of surprise as Crowley sweeps him off of his feet and carries him the short distance to the small room, neatly avoiding the doorframe, the errant piles of books. </p>
<p>It is cozy in the bedroom. Aziraphale has arranged everything just so - the oil by the side of the bed, the dark silk sheets, the spray of flowers in the vase on his dresser, and the candles in the old fashioned wall-sconces, which he has miracled to burn without heat. They flicker and cast their warm glow onto the bed. </p>
<p>Crowley takes it all in with a pleased expression but doesn’t say anything. He sets Aziraphale down as though he weighs no more than a feather and kicks off his shoes before following him onto the soft sheets. </p>
<p>“Give me a moment to compose myself, would you?” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Crowley says, and he turns his back as Aziraphale undresses and then lies down on his stomach, smiling into his pillow. </p>
<p>“The oil is just over there, my dear.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, ah - got it.” Crowley seems to be fiddling with his own clothing, and Aziraphale chances a quick glance. He’s still entirely dressed, but he’s rolled his sleeves and is pouring a generous amount of oil into his palm. Aziraphale’s skin prickles with anticipation. </p>
<p>The first touch on his lower calf sends a shiver through him. Crowley has exceptionally capable hands. They have always been captivating to Aziraphale, whether Crowley is steering the Bentley or tucking back oysters with those long, dexterous fingers. It’s not a surprise that he is accomplished at body massaging. He seems to know just where to dig in to get at the muscle, just where to apply lighter pressure. He continues, rubbing circles down Aziraphale’s calve to his heel, and then up again to the lower thigh, a place that is particularly sensitive. </p>
<p>The anticipation builds. Aziraphale closes his eyes, but he’s unable to relax, not with the thrumming need growing inside of him. It’s almost like it was that first time, when he knew Crowley was thinking about touching him - when he wanted Crowley to touch him, but he wasn’t sure when or how or if it would happen. Oh, he had been so aroused he had barely been able to stop himself from grabbing Crowley’s hand and pressing it between his legs. </p>
<p>Crowley seems to enjoy taking his time. He hums a little behind Aziraphale as he coats his hands with more oil and begins again, this time skirting up closer to Aziraphale’s buttocks but not quite touching. His fingers dip momentarily into the crease between Aziraphale’s legs, and Aziraphale almost gasps at the sensation. His Effort is already aching and wet, the hot core of him expressing a neediness he has difficulty admitting under other circumstances. Crowley - his demon - is kneeling between his thighs, the satiny fabric of his fancy trousers brushing tantalizingly against Aziraphale’s skin. It’s easy to imagine they are back where they started, before Aziraphale even knew what he was asking for. </p>
<p>“How’s that, angel?” Crowley asks, tickling the back of Aziraphale’s knee with just the tips of his fingers. “Feeling better?” </p>
<p>“Mmm. A bit.” </p>
<p>“A bit?” Crowley clucks his tongue. “Surely I can do better than that.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale widens his thighs, wriggling as he does so. He’s sure that he’s shamelessly on display, that the sight has to be having an effect on Crowley, but still the demon remains frustratingly restrained. He doesn’t venture anywhere near Aziraphale’s effort, and Aziraphale is sure that Crowley is teasing him on purpose.</p>
<p>“You alright there?” </p>
<p>“You fiend. You’re taunting me.” </p>
<p>“I don’t know what you mean. I thought you wanted me to massage your leg. Were you looking for something else?” </p>
<p>Huffing, Aziraphale lifts his head and gives Crowley a purse-lipped frown. “Crowley.” </p>
<p>“If you want something in particular, you have to ask for it. Right?” </p>
<p>It is true that Aziraphale has gotten much better at making requests and sharing his desires with Crowley, but it isn’t what he has in mind for tonight. He shakes his head, perhaps a little petulantly, and Crowley gives him a fondly exasperated look in return. </p>
<p>“All right, angel. I see what we’re doing here. Couldn’t help drawing it out a little to make you crazy.” </p>
<p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley leans forward to press a kiss against the base of his spine. </p>
<p>“You want me to take my time, eat your pussy slowly? Is that what you want? Or do you want me to fuck your sweet cunt and then take you in the arse again for good measure?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale flushes with heat; he can’t help himself when Crowley talks like this. “Really, my dear, the mouth on you.” </p>
<p>“I know you love my mouth, angel. So, what’ll it be, option one or two?” Crowley’s breath is hot on his back, right above the curve of his buttocks. “I think you want option two. I think you want my cock, angel, and you don’t want to wait another moment. Is that right?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale shudders. He can’t say that Crowley is wrong, and when Crowley’s fingers finally travel to touch him where he most needs it, he knows he’s done for. </p>
<p>“All right, love,” Crowley whispers. “I’ll give you what you need.” He undoes his trousers and shimmies out of them while Aziraphale’s heart pounds and pounds in his chest. He wonders if the novelty of this will ever wear off, if he will ever not be amazed at how well they fit together, if he will ever not want Crowley in the desperate, all-consuming way he does now. </p>
<p>He doesn’t think so. After all, it’s been six thousand years and he has only begun to love Crowley the way he deserves. </p>
<p>Aziraphale lifts himself and arches his spine, and Crowley uses one hand to brace himself while he guides his cock with the other. The first press into him is delicious, and Aziraphale revels at the full feeling as Crowley bottoms out with a groan and then begins to thrust. The pace is quick right from the beginning, and Aziraphale’s whole body rocks as Crowley takes him swiftly and expertly apart. The bed shakes. Aziraphale grinds back to get more friction as Crowley gives his all, his prick hot, heavy and delightful. At the same time, Crowley uses his thumb to press against Aziraphale’s rim. With the residual oil on his hands, it slides right in, and Aziraphale feels utterly debauched, knowing that Crowley is preparing his other hole, stretching him for what is to come. </p>
<p>The whole bed shakes with their coupling. Aziraphale is so lost in his own pleasure he doesn’t realise how close Crowley is until the demon’s hips snap with forceful purpose and he lets out a low, satisfied groan of release. Aziraphale can feel the heat pumping deep inside of him, and he touches himself, feels the wetness seeping from where they are joined. He is so close - but Crowley pulls out of him before his orgasm crests, leaving Aziraphale shaky and wanting. He grinds against the bed, searching for friction, and Crowley lets out a sound that sounds more like a hiss than a sigh. </p>
<p>“S-ssomeone’s sake, look at you,” Crowley says, now pushing two fingers deeper into Aziraphale’s arse. The mild sting has subsided, leaving only wanting in its wake. “Gonna fuck you again, angel. Fuck you nice and full. Are you ready for it?” Crowley, being a demon, has no refractory period if he doesn’t wish to - and he is hard again in an instant, removing his fingers and pressing his cock against Aziraphale’s pucker. </p>
<p>Aziraphale nods frantically into the pillow, arching his back as the tip of Crowley’s member pushes inside. The stretch is different here, but lovely in another way. Aziraphale throws his head back at the first full thrust, feeling utterly impaled. </p>
<p>“Get down on your side, angel. Let me play with that pretty little pussy while I fuck your arse.” </p>
<p>They move together, slightly awkwardly, until Aziraphale’s back is flush against Crowley’s chest. Crowley reaches down between Aziraphale’s legs and runs his fingers through the sopping mess there, evidence of their mingled pleasure, while he grinds his hips to get deeper. Aziraphale scrabbles against the bedsheets with sweaty hands, bracing himself against the onslaught, and he is caught in Crowley’s embrace, offering his neck for biting, covetous kisses. </p>
<p>It is extremely good like this, slow and languorous - Aziraphale feels entirely enveloped, entirely loved. Crowley seems to be in all places at once, his inhumanely flexible corporation doing things that Aziraphale has never experienced with another lover. Sometimes it makes him melancholy, to think of the centuries that he, or rather both of them, had to repress their desire and care for one another. But of course, they are not mortal creatures, and there will be no end to this now that they have it. </p>
<p>Crowley tweaks the aroused bud of his clitoris and rubs the sensitive skin all around it, inflaming Aziraphale almost to a frenzy as he chases his ruined climax a second time. The heat in his body builds to a crescendo, and just as Crowley slips two fingers back into his effort, Aziraphale starts to come. He cries out and clenches down on the fingers and the prick inside his arse, his whole corporation alight with sensation. </p>
<p>“There you go, love,” Crowley whispers against his ear, still moving his hips. He feels so big inside of Aziraphale, so steady and unrelenting. It’s only another few moments, however, before Crowley groans and holds Aziraphale steady with both arms, fucking him until his second hole is as sloppy and ruined as his first. </p>
<p>If Aziraphale thought that was going to be the end of things, he is mistaken. He is still shuddering from the aftershocks as Crowley withdraws from him and then slides down between his thighs, running his tongue from the top hole to the bottom. His eyes, those beautiful golden eyes - latch onto Aziraphale as he does so, and Aziraphale can only part his thighs and watch the proceedings with lust and deep adoration. Crowley spreads him with both hands, opening him up like a feast. </p>
<p>“Oh, my - Crowley, you really are quite wonderful.”</p>
<p>“Mmmm. Shhh. You are.” Crowley nips at him and swirls his tongue in a most devilish manner. Aziraphale knows his demon can’t quite accept a compliment, even now, but he also knows how much Crowley likes to hear them. </p>
<p>“You are, my dearest darling. You are so good to me. Such a lovely, lovely boy - ah!” </p>
<p>He is properly silenced by unspeakable kisses, a flickering tongue reigniting the fire between his legs. He can’t help but run his fingers through the soft mess of Crowley’s hair, pulling him closer, deeper. He grinds himself shamelessly against Crowley’s face, but Crowley seems only too happy to attend to him. He sucks at Aziraphale’s clit and kisses him everywhere, fucking him with his fingers until Aziraphale has no choice but to come again. And then again. </p>
<p>Later, when they have expended themselves in a manner befitting a silly yet important anniversary, Crowley leans over and turns on the light. Aziraphale blinks, but he’s not able to move quite yet. His whole body feels heavy and ponderous with the aftermath of their lovemaking. </p>
<p>Crowley looks down at him, a small smile curving his sensuous lips. “I got you something, angel.” </p>
<p>“You did?” </p>
<p>“You didn’t really think I forgot our anniversary, did you?” </p>
<p>“Crowley! You tricked me.” </p>
<p>“It’s not much. I just . . . didn’t know if you wanted to ah, wear one of these?” Crowley reaches under the pillow - the one that he usually uses when he sleeps at Aziraphale’s flat - and pulls out a small black box. </p>
<p>Inside, there are two simple gold bands, both inscribed with the current date. </p>
<p>“Dearest, is this—” Aziraphale pulls one ring out and holds it up to the light. “Is this a wedding ring?” Warm pleasure floods through him, and he watches as Crowley blushes, looks down at the box. </p>
<p>“Ah. Yeah. I don’t know if you want to do that whole wedding thing - we can, if you want. But under the eyes of you know who and all - seems a bit on the nose. I do like this part of the ritual, though.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale nods his head in agreement, and Crowley takes the slightly larger ring and slides it in place. There is a beat of silence before Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand in return. The second ring fits him perfectly, and Aziraphale gazes down at their clasped hands, slightly overcome. “I don’t need a wedding, my dear. I’m already yours, as I think you’re well aware. And you’re already mine.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, angel. I am. For as long as you'll have me.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale hums. "I think eternity might just about do."</p>
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